Le Morte d'Arthur
by Jammeke
Summary: Twenty-seven years after the first Great Purge, the second one began.


**Title:** Le Morte D'Arthur  
><strong>Author:<strong> Jammeke  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Twenty-seven years after the first Great Purge, the second one began.  
><strong>AN:** Spoilers for 4x03, "The Wicked Day".

What if it was Arthur? Warnings for Main Character Death.

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"Arthur!" he cried out, scrambling towards his son's falling body, catching him with feeble arms. The boy felt heavy in his arms, too weak, too fragile.

His hand came across something wet. Startled, Uther opened his palm and saw Pendragon–red blood staining his fingertips. "No." He tore his gaze away from the stickiness on his hands, managed to raise his voice for the first time in twelve months. "Guards." But it wasn't enough, not nearly enough.

He tried to get up, disentangle himself from his son's body. "I'll get help."

"No," Arthur whispered, his hand clenching around Uther's. "Stay with me, father."

"I'm here," he told his son. He had not always been there for Arthur, not when the boy needed him most, but he was here for him now, would always be here for him.

Sagging back against his bed, he tightened his hold on his son. "Guards!" he forced out of his mouth, almost managing a yell this time. "Someone." He swallowed thickly. "We need help."

"Father," Arthur breathed. "Father, I'm…" he closed his eyes for a moment, "I'm dying."

"No," Uther said, fear and determination bleeding through in his voice. It wasn't Arthur's time yet; he could not die. "You _will_ be King, Arthur. You just have to…" he chocked back a sob, "you just have to breathe. Breathe for me, Arthur."

"It hurts."

"I know." Uther kissed his son's forehead, tears prickling his eyes. "Hold on."

"I know I've not always–" Arthur let out a quiet gasp, and Uther wanted to shake him, wanted to tell him to stop talking, preserve his strength, but he couldn't bring himself to interrupt his son, not now of all times.

They might not get another chance.

"–a disappointment," Arthur was saying, and Uther firmly shook his head.

"No, Arthur, don't say it." He brushed the boy's sweaty hair of his forehead. "I am proud of you, son, even if I don't always say it." Why was he only saying this now? Why could he only admit this sacred truth to his son when one of them was about to d– when one of them was in danger? Why was he so stubborn? Why didn't he – why – how – _why_ was this happening?

"–always loved you," his son gasped, his eyes clenched shut now.

Uther shook his head, could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks. "I've always loved _you_, Arthur. I could not always show it, had to put my duty to Camelot first, but I – Arthur? _Arthur?"_

Arthur was no longer writhing in his arms. His body had gone pliant and still. Too still.

"Son?"

When his boy didn't answer, the Uther's head fell to his chest, and he cried silently into the night.

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There was a solution. And he would ask for it.

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For one glorious moment, his son opened his eyes, a confused look in them. Then, Arthur's head tilted to the side and their gazes locked.

Uther took a hesitant step forward, hardly daring to believe, hardly daring to let himself hope. Was this truly his son staring up at him? "Arthur?"

Arthur's smiled brightly, unexplainably finding the strength to lift the corners of his mouth.

The spell must have worked then.

With eyes for his son only, Uther didn't miss the pained moan that wrecked Arthur's body mere seconds later. The Prince gasped for breath, then sank back into the pillows, his lips forming a bewildered 'o'.

"What's happening? What is–" Uther looked up at the sorcerer on the other side of the bed. "Do something!" This wasn't happening, couldn't be happening. Not like this. "Arthur?"

His son's servant leaned forward, his fingers searching for a pulse.

Uther stared at those long, pale fingers, imagined them dressing his son's body, sharpening his sword, unbuckling his armor. He stared at them, willing them to find the precious beat of Arthur's heart.

But instead of performing another miracle, the servant jerked away from the Prince, disbelief and fear tainting his features. "He's dead."

"No." Uther leaned forward, hands grasping his son's still body. "Arthur. _Arthur_."

His son's wide-open eyes looked past him.

"No. No. I – you…" The servant caught Uther's attention then, hovering on the other side of the bed, pale hands reaching out for his master. "You!"

The servant stumbled away from the bed. "I'm sorry. This wasn't meant to happen."

"_You killed him!" _

Finding a purpose in this terrible moment, Uther lunged at the boy, grief and anger clouding his mind. He had been here before; had expected magic to solve his problems in the past. It hadn't worked then, why had he allowed himself to believe this time could be different?

Miracles did not happen.

Magic was evil.

How could he have forgotten that?

The servant yelled something in a language he didn't understand, and Uther could feel his feet leaving the ground, could feel the air rushing past him.

And then everything turned black.

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They came from across the Kingdom.

Uther stared at them through the glass of his bedchamber's window, watched their every step and wondered, wondered how many of these people were sorcerers, how many of them had been waiting for better times – a new era.

His jaw clenched.

He would see them burnt, hung, quartered. He would see them die one by one.

For twelve months, he had slumbered in his chambers, heart too broken by his daughter's betrayal to go on, mind content in the knowledge his son would do him proud.

But now even his broken heart did not matter anymore. Numbness had taken its place; had wiped away all feelings from his heart and mind.

He had nothing left to live for now – nothing but revenge.

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The people lost their Prince that night. But they regained their King in return.

Their King, who was – now more than ever – bent on driving all magic from the land, destroying every last trace of it, punishing those who used it for the horrors conflicted on his family.

And thus, twenty-seven years after the first Great Purge, the second one began.

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~FIN~


End file.
